Grand Theft Auto: Vengeance
by TheMoldyCrow
Summary: Tommy Vercetti, most powerful man in Vice City, has made a lot of enemies. Eventually, one was bound to get the better of him. When one finally does, it's up to his son and former bodyguard to exact venegence.
1. Chapter 1

Grand Theft Auto: Revenge

Chapter One: The Mighty Falls

"Right this way, gentlemen," the butler said to the two men representing the Forelli Family's interests in Vice City. "Don Vercetti has kindly agreed to speak with you. He is on his yacht at the moment, entertaining some guests. If you'd like, I can arrange for a car to talk you to the marina, or, if you prefer, you can take the helicopter you arrived in- the _Mercedes _has a helipad."

"We'll fly, thanks," the taller of the two said.

"Come, let me show you to the roof. Don Vercetti had it moved from your original landing spot."

The two men, both loyal 'made men' in the Forelli Family, shared a brief glance before following the butler out the door of the room Vercetti had given to them in his luxurious Hyman Condo (located in the most metropolitan, sophisticated area of Vice City) and down the hall to the elavator. The butler inserted a key into the wall panel, revealing two buttons that had previously been hidden- one labeled "roof" and the other, "sub-basement." The butler pressed a gloved finger against the "roof" button and waited patiently as they started to move, his hands behind his back.

"Roof, gentlemen. Your helicopter is prepped for flight."

Anthony Pinacelli, the taller Forelli rep, looked at Peter Barzini, his partner. "I didn't see him call anyone to prep the copter," he whispered.

"I took the liberty, sir, before I asked," the butler answered, even though the question hadn't really been addressed to him.

The two looked at each other again, much nonverbal communication passing between them. Without another word, they climbed into the helicopter, which rose and began making its way towards Ocean Beach Marina.

Tommy Vercetti laughed at the joke his latest business associate had just made and took another sip of his glass of wine. Like everything else he owned, it was the best. At two thousand dollars a bottle, the vintage he had been drinking for the last hour was among the most expensive on the market. Vercetti took another sip. It was worth every penny.

Life had treated Tommy Vercetti handsomely since he had been released from prison, twenty years ago yesterday. Sent to the exotic but unfamilar Vice City, Vercetti had risen from "new gun in town" to the mastermind behind all criminal activity in the corrupt tropical city. He had even been granted the right to a Family name by the other Mafia Families. Twenty years ago, he had nothing but an old (but beloved) Hawaian shirt and some jeans to his name. Now he owned muliple businesses, both legitimate and illegal, several beautiful properties throughout the city (from his large mansion in the richest section in town to his lucrative Hyman Condos in prime real estate Downtown), and, of course, the _Mercedes_, his wonderfully luxurious yacht that served as his main base of operation nowadays. Named for his late wife, it had been a gift from his father-in-law, Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez. His wife's death from cancer had been hard on Vercetti, but his son, his only child, had been there to greive and move on with him.

"So then- you'll love this, Don, you really will, this little Jap prick has the _nerve_ to say to me, 'so you'll have the money by tomorrow?'" Douglas Love, nephew to the real estate mogul Donald Love, said, laughing uproariously at his own joke.

Vercetti laughed again, the squinted as he saw something on the horizon, coming closer. It was a helicopter, and one that Vercetti recognized. It had flown in this morning, piloted by two muscleheads from the Forelli Family. Apparently, the tattered remnants of the once-powerful Family in Liberty City had come to talk to Vercetti about expanding his empire northwards with their assistance. Obviously, they were trying to recoup their losses from when Vercetti had killed a powerful member of their organization twenty years ago.

The people at the party, who had been milling around the top deck, drinking and mingling, now noticed the helicopter as well. The helipad, which had been serving as a dance floor, was quickly evacuated to make room for the approaching vehicle. Vercetti quickly motioned for one his men to begin herding the guests belowdecks to the lounge. By the time the helicopter touched down, only he, his son, and his personal bodyguard/advisor remained on deck.

The helicopter touched down gracefully, barely bumping the boat. Vercetti looked at Ian Hughes, his boyguard and one of the few men he trusted and nodded. Both were good enough pilots to recognize a talenting landing when they saw one.

"Don Vercetti," one of the Forelli reps yelled as he climbed out of the helicopter, his unbuttoned suit jacket and tie flapping in the rush of wind caused by the helicopter's still moving rotor blades. "I am honored to be invited aboard your boat. My name is Anthony Pinacelli, and I'm here on behalf of Don Forelli."

Vercetti shook his hand, nearly crushing the smaller man's hand with his considerable grip. "Good to have you aboard, Anthony. It's getting dark, why don't we head belowdecks and speak where its comfortable. I'm sure your pilot would like to get out of that copter there and have a drink." It sounded polite enough, but the iron tone of command in Vercetti's voice was unmistakable. Pinacelli smiled easily.

"Sure, that'd be great."

The two followed Vercetti and his companions belowdecks, past the lounge, and into a comfortable appointed room in the stern of the ship. It was furnished with two large leather couches, a minibar, and French doors opened up to a small deck in back where Vercetti's personal boat, a souped-up Squalo, hung from a complex set of rigging. Vercetti poured the men drinks and the five sat for a few minutes, enjoying the liquor.

"Pardon me, I'm forgetting my manners," Vercetti said. "This is Ian Hughes, my bodyguard, and this is Michael Vercetti, my son," he motioned to the men in sequence.

"Like I said, I'm Anthony Pinacelli, and this is Peter Barzini," Pinacelli said. "And I hate to be rude, Don Vercetti, but we have an appointment in San Fierro tomorrow we cannot be late for. May we get down to business?" he asked.

"Sure," Vercetti answered. "Just why are you guys here any-"

"Ugh, excuse me," Barzini interjected suddenly, standing up. "Can I use your can?"

Vercetti looked at him, slightly put off by this break in etiquette. "Sure, its down the hall, first on your right." From the corner of his eye, he caught Hughes' glance. Something wasn't quite right. Hughes got up to fix himself another drink, but this time sat down where he'd have a clean line of fire at both Pinacelli and the door.

"As I was saying," Vercetti began again. "I was wondering why the Forelli Family decided to send you. Our relations have been . . .strained. . .at best since I took over here."

"Ah, that's the reason I'm here, Don." At once, the two stood up. "They'd like to change that. I have in my jacket pocket a letter from Don Forelli himself, asking you to meet with him in a neutral location. It is sealed, so I've not been able to read it myself, but I'd like to give it you. May I?" Obviously, he didn't want Vercetti to think he was reaching for a gun.

"Sure," Vercetti said cautiously. Something didn't seem right. As Pinacelli reached into his pocket, Vercetti called to his son. "Michael- why don't you go see if Peter is all right. It's been quite a while." His son met his cause for a moment, and understanding flashed between the two. Michael stood and left the room, pulling the well-oiled .45 semiautomatic pistol he kept on him at all times from his jacket pocket as soon as he was out the door.

"Don Vercetti?" Pinacelli asked, taking another step towards him. "I have your present here."

"I thought you said letter," Vercetti said, frowning slightly. Hughes' hand crept slowly towards the silenced .22 pistol he kept in a shoulder holster under his suit jacket.

"Did I? I'm sorry," Pinacelli said, his hand coming out from his jacket. It held not a letter or gift but a stolen police model .38 revolver with a snub-nose for easy concealment. "I meant I have a present from the Forelli Brothers, compliments of Sonny!" And with that, he began shooting at Vercetti, hitting him twice in the chest before Hughes got his gun clear. Hughes' more modern semiautomatic spat silenced fire four times, the first hitting Pinacelli's gun, the next two hitting his hand, the final striking the hitman in the shoulder, jerking him around. Vercetti collapsed with a groan, groping at something in his jacket.

Meanwhile, waiting in the hall, Michael heard a yell that was too muffled to make out the words followed by several loud gunshots. Without thinking, the nineteen year old kicked the door in and quickly assessed the situation.

Ian Hughes held his sleek little .22, aimed carefully. Anthony Pinacelli, the Forelli representative, was leaning heavily against a wall, clutching his left arm, which appeared to have been wounded several times. He was breathing heavily and eyeing a bloody revolver on the floor. And Michael's father-

Oh God.

Michael's father, the invincible Tommy Vercetti, had collapsed on the floor, bleeding heavily from his chest.

"Papa!" Michael yelled, breaking the stalement between Hughes and Pinacelli. The Forelli hitman dove for his gun at the same time Hughes fired. The two shots went wide over Pinacelli's head, but Michael added his own voice to the argument, scoring three hits along the diving man's leg. Pinacelli got the revolver, aimed it at Michael's head, who froze, mouth agape-

only to jump when a deafening _boom_ echoed through the small room. The revolver snapped into two pieces, which both went flying and all three men snapped their heads around to the source of the gunfire.

Tommy Vercetti smiled at his son, holding his ever-faithful Colt Python. He then looked to Hughes and said, "Get him out of here." Then his eyes rolled until only whites showed and the most powerful crimelord in Vice City collapsed, dead.

"Papa!" Michael screamed again, unwilling to beleive it.

"He's dead," Pinacelli screamed in triumph, staggering to his feet; his injured leg barely supporting him. "He's dead, and you'll all be soon! Hope you'll have a _blast_!" And with that, laughing madly, Pinacelli emptied the revolver into the glass door at the other of the room. Hughes and Michael ducked instinctively at the noise, giving Pinacelli the oppurtunity he needed to sprint past them. He dove off the boat, seemingly into open waters, only to grab the landing skid of a helicopter right before he struck the water. Michael screamed in incorherent rage and emptied his gun's clip into the helicopter, hoping to get a lucky hit, but failing. Defeated, he sank to his knees, watching the helicopter, piloted by Barzini, grow smaller and smaller.

"C'mon, kid, on your feet," Hughes said, grabbing his shoulder. "This party ain't over." Michael looked at him, dazed and confuzed. "I'll bet anything Barzini went to the engine room and rigged this place to blow. C'mon!" he commanded, hauling Michael to his feet and half-dragging him across the room. Shoving the still-shocked Michael into Vercetti's Squalo, Hughes turned on the ignition (the keys were fortunately always left in, in case Vercetti needed to make a quick getaway) and pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and slashed at the ropes holding the boat. Eventually, the Squalodropped into the water and sped off across the waves, directed by Hughest to get as far away as fast as it could. Seconds later, Hughes was thrown forward against the steering wheel by the force of a huge explosion behind him. He didn't need to look behind him to know what had happened. Hughes knew if he did look, he'd see a burning, sinking hulk- all that remained of the headquarters of the Vercetti Empire.

Fin.


	2. Chapter 2

Grand Theft Auto: Revenge

Chapter Two: Fugitives

Hughes expertly piloted the small speed boat across the open water, heading towards the boathouse Vercetti owned in Viceport. The huge, deafening explosion that had consumed the _Mercedes_ had attracted swarms of VCPD boats and helicopters, searching in vain for survivors. There couldn't be any survivors, not after an explosion that big.

"Papa," Michael whispered brokenly again, tears streaking down his face. "Oh, Papa. . .what am I going to do?" he hid his face in his hands, sobbing. "What am I going to do?"

Hughes stopped driving the boat for a second, turning to face him. "You can start acting like a man, for one," he said coldly. "Your father would beat your ass if he saw you carrying on like that. Sit up straight!"

Immediately, Michael's posture changed. He sat up straighter and his jaw took a determined set. When that combined with the angry, hostile look in his eye, he looked chillingly like Tommy had at his age. He was still pale, but Hughes' words had treated him like a slap to the face.

"That's better," Hughes said grudgingly. "We need to get out of the city, and fast. The Forelli have probably got gunmen all over the place. They've already beheaded the Vercetti Family and now they're going to be shooting the corpse to make sure- that means they'll be taking out all your father's underbosses and even targeting his legitimate businesses."

As if illustrating his point, a report broke in over the soothing music Hughes had turned on to calm Michael down.

"This is News 7, with a special bulletin," the anchor said, his voice tinny over the small radio. "Just minutes ago, powerful real estate magnate and suspected drug baron, Thomas Vercetti, was killed along with some sixty-five other people, including his son, Michael Vercetti, when Vercetti's yacht, the _Mercedes_, exploded off Ocean Beach. At this time, the cause of the explosion is undetermined, but police experts suspect foul play. Not long after the explosion, fires broke out all over Vice City, appearing to have been set deliberately. All of the fires thus far have damaged or destroyed properties owned by Vercetti, including several apartment buildings, the Cherry Popper Ice Cream Factory, and his exclusive condo Downtown. Police have no leads-"

Hughes turned the report off. "See," he said to Michael. "This isn't any kind of takeover attempt. The Forelli are trying to destroy the entire empire."

"It's the only revenge they can think of," Michael said coldly. "They want to put Vice City back to what it was before my father took over- a confused, corrupted mess. All of the gangs my father kept under control will break out and start wars with each other for the pieces."

Hughes nodded. "I lived here then, right near the border of Little Havana and Little Haiti. Cubans and Haitians fighting every couple days, doing drive-bys, selling drugs. . .it's why I respected your father so much. He always kept the more. . .unpleasant. . .aspects of his business away from children and innocents. These guys, they're animals. . .Cubans, Haitians, Sharks, Columbians, biker gangs, not to mention all the drug dealers, bookies, and scumbags in it for themselves. People won't be able to walk the streets again." Hughes swallowed with difficulty. "The cops are going to be what they used to, too. Beating suspects to death, running them over, extorting bribes."

"Micky! Hughes! You're alive!" a voice called to them from Vercetti's boatyard. It was Jed Paige, the ex-Navy sailor who had been placed in charge of the boatyard and the drug-smuggling business that operated out of it. He ran down the dock to meet them, helping them moor the boat. "Christ, I saw the news, I thought you guys were dead! Come on, get in, quick. The city's gone to shit! It's pandemonium! Some big shot from Liberty's handin' out huge rewards for anyone who trashes stuff the Don owns! I just sent the boys to the front to take care of anyone looking for trouble."

"Good work," Michael said, following Hughes into the boathouse's office. "We need transportation to Escobar," he told Jed. "Bring along a few guns, we might hit some trouble. Me and Hughes need to get the hell out of here."

"You'd do well to leave too, Paige," Hughes added. "The Don's underbosses are being taken out all over the city."

"Take one of my father's boats and all the drugs you have," Michael told him. "Consider it a farewell gift."

Paige looked from the older Hughes to the younger Michael. "What do you mean, 'farewell gift,'" he asked. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Jed, Vice City is going to hell real soon and if you don't get out now, you won't get out at all. Just get one last message to boys for me, ok?" Michael looked at the older man, his eyes pleading.

Jed gave in. "Yeah, sure," he said, suddenly sounding very tired. He sank into his leather desk chair, his eyes downcast. "I can leave everybody a group voice mail on their phones."

Michael looked at him, his eyes harder than they had been that morning. "Tell them I said, 'whether you leave Vice City or try to get a peice of independent action, thanks, and good luck.'" With that, he and Hughes left the temporary safety of the boathouse, climbing into an unmarked cab (provided free of charge by Kaufman Cabs, a company incidentally owned by Vercetti). Inside the cab's glove compartment they would find two well-cared for .45 semiautomatic pistols and under the passengers seat would be secured a twelve-guage, doublebarreled shotgun and a box containing forty-five shells of number 4 buckshot. Vercetti had been big on arming all his cars and hiding caches of money and weapons throughout the city in numerous remote locations. Unfortunately, the two didn't have time to collect any of this, and would have to make do with the weapons on hand.

"You want the pistols or the shotgun?" Hughes asked.

"Shotgun," Michael answered. He had always liked shotguns. They weren't fancy weapons; you pointed them in the general direction or the target and let the spread do the rest. Even a near miss could disable or disarm a target. Plus, they hurt like hell, and Michael was feeling savage enough to want to inflict alot of pain on anyone stupid enough to try to take them.

It was a short drive to Escobar International Airport from Viceport, but the luck Michael had had throughout the day seemed to be prevailing. When Hughes (who was driving) stopped at a red light, a man dressed in the grey coveralls of a freight worker at the docks and wielding a two-by-four saw them and shouted to the crowd of identical men following him. At once, their taxi was surrounded by dock workers who apparently had an idea that the one to bring Don Forelli their heads would receive an extremely large sum of money.

The hammers, crowbars, and baseballs bats wielded by the freightmen banged off the taxi again and again, splintering the windows in no time. Hughes tried to pull away, but the mass of bodies around the car prevented him from getting more than two or three feet from his stopping spot. Michael grabbed the shotgun from under the seat and checked to make sure it was loaded. It was, thankfully. Michael took off the safety and pointed the gun at the windshield. It was already cracked so badly it was near shattering and three or four men had climbed on the hood of the car, banging the windshield with hammers.

"Get ready to run it, Ian," Michael told him, leveling the gun.

"Jesus, Micky, don't-"

"When I say so, gun it!"

"Oh, man, I'm gunna regret-"

Michael pulled the trigger, shattering the windshield and leaving ugly wounds in two of the men on the hood. He pumped the shotgun, readied it again, and fired. The hood was now clear. A third and fourth shot emptied the shotgun, but cleared a path.

"Go!"

Hughes slammed his foot on the gas, breaking free of the swarm of men around them. When he had gotten about twenty feet away, Hughes slammed on the brakes and threw the car into reverse. He ran down nearly the entire mob chasing them and waited until he had backed right back to his original spot. Braking and throwing the taxi into forward, Hughes sped off, hitting the prone mob again while they were still knocked down. Michael climbed into the backseat and used the butt of the shotgun to shatter the back window too. After reloading the shotgun, Michael pointed it out the back, ready to take out any pursuers.

It wasn't long before the first organized attempt on Michael and Hughes' lives was mounted. Fortunately, no one knew Michael was Vercetti's son.

"We've got company!" Michael yelled. From around a corner, six punks on dirtbikes began following them, gaining with every passing foot. The airport wasn't far now, and Hughes was on the phone with the hanger manager there, ordering him to prep the helicopter Vercetti used when he had to travel out of down.

"Take them out, the copter'll be waiting for us at Escobar!" Hughes yelled back.

"All right boys, get 'em! It's gotta be one of Vercetti's underbosses, he's in a Vercetti cab!" the leader of the dirtbike gang yelled, taking one hand off the handlebars to pull an Ingram Mac10 submachine gun from his sleevless denim jacket. He fired at the cab, making Michael duck instinctively. Instead of his head, the bullets splashed off of the bumper of the vehicle. They were trying to shoot out the tires and disable the cab.

Armed with the knowledge that they weren't trying to kill him, Michael popped back up, took aim at the nearest bike, and fired. The buckshot chewed up the bike's front tire like so many angry teeth and sent the punk riding it over the handlebars and into the street, where his fallen bike was struck by another biker who was also thrown from his ride.

"You'll pay for that!" the leader yelled, spraying the back of the taxi with another burst from his Mac10.

"Not on your life, asshole!" Michael called back, shooting at him. The gang leader swerved expertly, dodging the shot. Hughes twisted around for a moment and shot several times out the back. All of the shots hit the same biker directly in the face, practically causing his head to explode. Michael used the time this diversion brought him to fire again, hitting the fourth biker in the arm. While not fatal in an of itself, the wound tore the biker off his bike and into the street. It was just the leader and one more, now. Michael prepared to take another shot, but stopped to look at Hughes when he heard the roar of a bike engines.

"We're dead," Hughes said. "They've got reinforcements and the car can't take much more abuse. I'm gunna turn as sharp as I can and you're gunna jump out. Jack a car and make for the airport."

Michael's reply was cut short but the arrival of the new bikers. They weren't reinforcements at all! Michael recognized the biker in the leader immediately. It was Mitch Baker, leader of the Outcasts, a biker gang that his father had employed as strongmen. He too held a shotgun, a sawed-off, stubby model that looked wildly inaccurate and extremely powerful. Baker fired the hand cannon, taking off one of the two remaining bikers' heads. The leader turned sharply, trying to flee, but a fat biker Michael recognized as Cougar hurled a long metal chain through the air, striking the leader in the back of the head. He fell from his bike and struck the pavement hard. He moaned, tried to get up, then fell into unconsciousness. Baker waved and motioned for his bikers to fall into formation around the battered taxi. Michael waved a grateful "thank you" to the aging Vietnam vet.

When they arrived at the airport several minutes later, Michael and Hughes paused a moment to say thank you to Mitch.

"It's not problem," the tall, muscled Outcast leader said, waving a hand. "Your daddy pulled me outta some tough situations over the years, and I figured it was the least I could do. Where're you boys headed, anyway?"

"I have some contacts in San Andreas," Hughes said. "Some old Army buddies who'll help us get back on our feet."

"Then we'll back here to kill those sons of bitches who got Dad," Michael said forcefully, his jaw set.

Baker nodded. "San Andreas is a rough place," he said. "I spent some time there in the late 70's. Heard it's got even worse- lots of crack dealers and senseless killing."

Hughes nodded. "You're right, but any place is safer than here right now. Every second we stay is a risk."

"In that case, goodbye, amigos," Baker said. "Get on that copter and get out of here."

Without another word, Michael and Hughes boarded the hovering copter, not looking back. Not trusting him, Hughes kicked the pilot out and instructed him to dump the taxi in the ocean. With one more wave to Baker, the two were off, heading North.

"I thought San Andreas was west of here," Michael said to Hughes.

"We're going to Liberty City," Hughes replied. "No sense taking chances. Besides, the Forelli Family is in Liberty City."

Michael clenched his teeth in anger. "I'll kill them all," he snarled.

"Yeah, we will," Hughes said. "We will."

Fin.


	3. Chapter 3

Grand Theft Auto: Vengeance

Chapter Three: New City, New Start

It wasn't long after the helicopter took off that Michael, exhausted by the stressful events of the day, fell asleep in the back cabin. Hughes spared at glance at the sleeping Vercetti, furious for the boy's sake. Nineteen, newly orphaned, and probably unable to ever set foot in Vice City, his home, ever again. Hughes vowed to at least make sure the boy''s father's killers would not go unpunished. Despite his Irish blood, Hughes was a great beleiver in the Sicilian ideal that revenge was the only true justice.

Glancing at Michael again to make sure he was asleep, Hughes rotated the helicopter to the left so it now faced west. He piloted onwards, making for San Fierro. The Forelli hitmen had mentioned going there. Idiots. They might not have expected anyone to survive, but they still shouldn't have leaked information like that. It was unprofessional. Hughes would ensure the hitmen died, then travel to nearby San Andreas with Michael, where his some old Army buddies of his who were involved in the criminal underworld would hopefully help them out.

For the next few hours, Hughes flew on, lost in thought. Who did he know in San Fierro? There was an old Chink businessman who might be willing to provide them with some information, if the price was right. Unfortunately, Hughes had no money. Maybe he could offer his services in exchange for the information? Men like Wu Zi Mu always had need for people like Hughes. Then there was that nigger gang, the Grove Street Families, that had taken over most of everything a few years ago. Their mysterious leader, known only as "CJ" to the criminal underworld, might be willing to help. Hughes had heard a rumor about his mother being killed by gang warfare.

Tearing Hughes from his thoughts, the helicopter's radio crackled to life. "VFC-1, VFC-1, this is San Fierro Air Traffic Control. You roger?"

"Roger," Hughes said into the radio. "This is VFC-1. What's my approach vector?"

"You're clear for vector one-seven decimal two-eight. When you land, please stand by for Customs. Have a pleasant stay in San Fierro."

"Roger," Hughes said, and clicked the radio off. Time to wake the boy. "Michael," he called. "Michael, wake up!"

A groan sounded from the back cabin, followed by the sound of shuffling feet, unsteady on the bucking helicopter. "What?" the sleepy-eyed youth asked, his hair mussed from sleep and his clothes wrinkled.

"We're landing and Customs is going to inspect us. In the cabin there should be a pilot's uniform. Put it on. There should be a suitcase in the drawer to your left with an emergency set of fake ID's. As long as we're in San Fierro, you're Jake Calloway, a pilot for Vercetti Freight Company. I'm Greg Leplante, a mid-level exec here to do some business. Got it?"

Michael frowned. "I thought we were going to Liberty City."

"The Forelli hitmen who got your father said they were coming here. We'll take them out first, then head to San Andreas anyway. My Army buddies there will get us squared away. Rumor travels fast, and it might not be a good idea to be in Liberty City when the Forelli find out you're alive."

Michael nodded and went aft to get the requested items. Hughes combed his hair and affected an air of casual arrogance and amiability. The Customs idiots would think him nothing other then the story he fed them.

Time to take her in for landing, Hughes thought. From an expertise honed from years piloted the very same helicopter for Don Vercetti on out-of-town business trips Hughes set the copter down gently, barely bumping the ground at all. He powered down the rotor blades and opened the sliding door to the helicopter, unfolding the steps concealed in the floor so the Customs agents could get up.

"Morning," the Customs agent said to Hughes as he climbed the stairs. Hughes had hardly realized it was late morning, and suddenly felt exhuastion pull at him. He'd been up for more than thirty hours.

"Morning," Hughes replied. Michael, playing the role of pilot perfectly, said nothing. "No offense, but could you hurry this along? I have some important appointments to make."

"Sure," the Customs agent said easily, setting about to his task even slower than usual. Hughes smirked. Typical; he didnt' try to bribe him and so the Customs agent was being a jerk.

Hughes and Michael waited patiently for the Customs agent to finish his search, and after affirming they weren't smuggling anything into the city, they were set loose. Hughes had just enough money on him to provide a cab into the poorest, most rundown area of the city.

"What a dump," Michael observed. He was right. The street before them was nearly deserted. A middle-aged woman, apparently a prostitute, stood on the street corner, looking bored. A crack dealer, instantly recognizable by a long overcoat in the summer heat, paced back and forth in front of a convenience store, muttering to himself. The houses on the street were all unpainted and had their windows boarded up.

As soon as Michael and Hughes got out of the taxi, the driver sped off, having already collected his cash in advance. Hughes didn't like the nervous look in the driver's eyes when they had entered this neighborhood.

"Well, what now," Michael asked. "How do we find the Forelli?"

Hughes thought for a moment. "There's a Chinese gambler I know who operates some ritzy casino here. He won't give us any information for free, but I think he could find use for us if we wanted to hire ourselves out."

"If he operates such a ritzy casino, what are we doing here?" Michael asked, motioning with a hand to indicate their dreary surroundings.

"Because we need some supplies before we find Wu Zi Mu- that's his name- and to get these supplies without money, we'll have to commit a little theft. We're in this section of town because the cops are less likely to be patrolling. They never pay attention to the poor, only the rich. Cops here are way more corrupt than back home; half of them are bigger cocaine dealers than pushers themselves."

"I'm guessing we need some weapons, a car, and maybe a place to stay," Michael asked.

Hughes smiled. "I'll make a small-time crook outta you yet. But no, first we need money. We get enough of that, the rest will fall into place. Who would you rob first?"

Michael thought for a second. "The convenience store? It'd have the most money, right?"

Hughes smiled indulgently at his pupil. "Not a bad idea, except every low life within a mile has probably already tried it, and the clerk would have to be an idiot not to be packing heat- which we aren't. No, first we hit that crackhead over there. Dealers usually are good for a couple hundred bucks and rarely employ thugs. Remember that. Now, watch how it's done."

Michael followed shortly behind Hughes as the older man approached the drug dealer. Hughes didn't even have to say anything, the drug dealer spoke first.

"Hey, boys. . .looking for something special? I got what you need! Follow me, boys, follow me," he cackled, and led them into an alleyway. When they were out of sight, he opened his overcoat, revealing packets of cocaine, crack, pot, and numerous bags of multicolored pills. "What's your poison, boys?" he asked, grinning the broad, mad grin of a junkie.

"Money," Hughes grunted. "I'll take all you've got."

The drug dealer stopped grinning. "Money? Ain't never heard of no drug called money, you sure you got the right-"

He never finished his sentence. Hughes grabbed the weak, frail junkie around the throat and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Hughes had once been an amatuer boxer and was quite proud of his left hook. The dealer dropped. Working quickly, Hughes opened one of the packets of cocaine and rubbed the entire thing into the dealer's gums. Again, Hughes worked quickly and efficiently, relieving the dealer of all of his cash, his watch, and two of the packets of cocaine.

"C'mon, he said to Michael. "This is going to get messy in a second, once the convulsions hit. Between the head wound he got when he hit the ground and the cocaine overdose he just got, this guy ain't gunna be around for too long."

The two took off, walking quickly but not running, their heads down and eyes averted. When they had traveled several blocks, they came across a cheap diner where they carefully counted the money they had. Between what they had in their pockets and the drug dealer's money, they had about three hundred dollars between them. The weapons from the Kaufman Cab back in Vice City had been left with Mitch Baker so they couldn't be traced. As of right now, all they had to their names were the clothes on their backs, the helicopter they came in, and three hundred dollars. They didn't even have a cell phone between them; Michael had left his in the charger on the boat and Hughes had lost his during the fight when Don Vercetti had been killed. They ordered meals and ate in silence, each wondering what they would do.

Suddenly, Hughes' eyes lit up. "Of course!"

"What?" Michael asked, looking up from his lukewarm Salsbury steak. "What is it?"

"Larry Goodwhite!" Hughes whispered excitedly. "A few years before I started work with your father, he and I worked as enforcers for a bookie. The bookie got caught and went to jail and the cops nearly got us, too. Larry came here to work for the bookie's cousin, and eventually worked his way up till he ran the thing himself. Then, a couple years ago, when Wu Zi was expanding his empire, he overtook Larry's operation. He was so impressed with it, he let Larry keep it going, so long as he gave Wu Zi some of the profits. Larry was a good guy, he'll get us the in with Wu Zi."

Michael frowned. "If we have to earn the information from this Wu Zi guy, how are we supposed to get the Forelli? They'll probably be back in Liberty by then, laughing."

Hughes shook his head. "Wu Zi is a smart guy. He knows that if we try to skip town without paying him back, we'll never find work for anyone again, and end up on the ocean floor for trying." Hughes took out his wallet. "I still got his cell number in here somewhere, let's hope he didn't get a new one. . ."

After a moment of searching, Hughes found it, holding it up in triumph. Immediately, he sprang to the pay phone near the restrooms in the diner, dialing excitedly. Michael stayed at the table, working through a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, trying to act like he and Hughes weren't planning anything. Still, the waitress looked at him suspiciously. Michael waited what seemed like forever for Hughes to come back, who sat back down, grinning broadly.

"I got hold of him. He's got a place not far from here, but outside this neighborhood. He said we're not going to get a taxi out here, cab drivers don't go here much; they get robbed and jacked too often. It's too dangerous to walk, too, so we'll have to jack a car."

"That I can do," Michael said. "But I'm guessing all the parked cars are locked in this neighborhood, so we'll have to get a guy at a red light or something."

Hughes nodded. "You're learning, kid. You're learning."

Michael grinned and dropped some money on the table, covering the bill and the tip. The two left the restaurant and sought out the nearest red light. Perfect. An '81 Idaho was idling at a red light, the young man at the wheel distracted by the radio. He didn't look up when Michael approached the car and didn't even notice the young man was there until he opened the door and yanked on the driver's wrist, jerking him out.

"What the fuck," the driver yelled, reaching into his pocket for a switchblade. _Christ,_ thought Michael. _Am I the only guy in the city who isn't armed?_ Dodging the admittedly novice slash form the driver, Michael struck his wrist, sending the switchblade clattering to the ground. From there, Michael slammed his shoulder into the driver, smashing him up against the car, stunning him. While the driver fought to catch his breath, Michael threw him into the ground and hopped in the car. Hughes already sat in the passenger's seat, patiently waiting.

"What took you?" he asked as casually as if Michael was late to a lunch meeting or something.

"He had a knife," Michael explained, speeding off, leaving the driver with a splitting headache and without a car.

Larry hadn't lied, his apartment wasn't far away. Unfortunately, traffic in the city was horrible and it took Michael forty minutes to drive the eight blocks to bookie's place. When they arrived, Michael parked the car at a nearby municipal lot and locked the car with the keys inside. By now, the car's theft would have been reported to the cops and they'd be looking for it. The two walked into the building and found "GOODWHITE" printed on mailbox number 16B, which was on the six floor. Michael and Hughes rode the elavator to the six floor and found Larry's door, knocking on it. Almost at once, it was flung open and they were pulled inside by a nervous-looking, balding man who was apparently Larry.

"Thank God you guys are here," he exclaimed. "I need your help!"

"Nice to see you again too, Larry. How're things?" Hughes said sarcastically.

"I don't have time for that crap, Ian!" Larry screeched. "After you called, a bunch of thugs broke in and stole Wu Zi's weekly payment! If I don't get that back, I'm dead meat, man, you don't understand! Those Chinks are crazy, they'll chop my nuts off and feed them to people in the casino, they'll grind my pecker into-"

"All right, we get the picture," Hughes said, waving him off. "And if he kills you, he sure as hell won't help us, your friends."

"I swear, if you guys help me, I'll get you anything you want- just please, get that money back! I've got a motorcycle I use to make deliveries sometimes, you can use that!"

Michael stood up. "I'll go. You got a gun, Larry?"

"Who's that?"

Hughes stood too. "He's my student. I'm looking to pass on the old skills to him. You can trust him."

Larry swallowed noisly. "All right, but you stay here, Ian. We'll talk about getting you in with Wu Zi. The thugs who got me were Italians, I saw them take off in a black Sentinel. They'll probably head for Angelina's Bistro, over by the bridge. Oh, and you, whatever your name is," Michael turned and caught the gun Larry tossed him. "You're gunna need that."

RRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOAAAAAAAAR!

Michael couldn't help grinning like a kid as the motorcycle- a brand new PCJ- roared with power beneath him. He was good at riding bikes; he used to bomb around Viceport back home, raising hell and scaring the shit out of people when he occasionally used the sidewalks to avoid traffic. It wasn't long before Michael found Angelina's, but he hesitated going in. It was apparently a Mafia hangout. He thought, trying to remember which Family operated in San Fierro. It was a smaller, less-powerful family, he remembered. . .but who was it?

Ah, that's who. The Leones had fled here from Vice City after they were nearly wiped out by some gunman working for the Triads a while back. Now they competed with Wu Zi, the niggers, and the Vietnamese for control of San Fierro. Michael vaguely recollected they were big on prostitution, which nearly always went hand-in-hand with gambling, the biggest criminal enterprise in San Fierro. Seems like they were trying to get in on the gambling now, too.

Michael parked the bike, letting the engine idle as he checked the place out. The waiters were armed; he caught a glimpse at their holsters under their dinner jackets. Not a place he wanted to storm with. . . what had Larry given him, anyway? Ah, nice. A .44 magnum loaded with what appeared to be hollow nosed bullets. A wound from this gun would be a messy one indeed. Still, he had only one clip for it and that clip held only. . .six shots. Damn.

Suddenly, the sound of broken glass reached Michael's ears. A large, burly "waiter" had thrown a man through the window, and yelled for everyone to hear, "The Leones don't want any part in your dirty politics, Barzini! Get out and don't come back!"

Barzini! That had been the name of the man who had planted bombs on the _Mercedes_! Michael snarled, but stayed his hand. Barzini was running away, followed by three men in suits. He jumped into the passenger seat of a black Sentinel parked nearby, followed quickly by his associates. The car sped off, but not before Michael revved the bike and began following.

It wasn't long before they realized Michael was tailing them. It was lucky he was wearing a helmet; Barzini wouldn't be able to recognize him. Otherwise he might make a call to Liberty and the entire Forelli Family would come down on Michael's head. Instead, Barzini ducked his head out the window and emptied a .357 revolver into the air around Michael's chest. Michael dodged and weaved, allowing none of the bullets to hit him. The two men in the back also turned, firing their weapons- H&K semis, if the distinct sound the gunshots were making was any indicator. Michael withdrew the magnum from his pocket and drove one-handed for a moment, taking careful aim.

CRACK!

The sound of the gunshot echoed loudly through Michae's ears, even through the helmet. The back window of the car shattered and one of the gunmen in the back slumped forward. his head sporting a fist-sized hole in the back. The car swerved wildly as the driver was hit by blood and bits of bone and Michael took the time to take careful aim on his next shot.

CRACK!

The sharp crack permeated Michael's ears again, the gun's kickback making his bike buck beneath him. This time, the driver was hit, and the car swerved out of his control, the gas pedal still jammed down by the dead driver's foot. Barzini was trying to gain control of the car and presented an easy shot for Michael, but he didn't shoot the killer. He wanted Barzini to know it was from him. Instead, he lined up his third shot.

CRACK!

The final gunman in the back jerked as his head exploded and hit the door hard enough to tumble out onto the street. Michael was forced to jump the corpse in order to avoid hitting it. Barzini still hadn't gotten control of the car and had apparently decided to cut his losses and ditch the car. The passenger side door opened and Barzini jumped out, rolling when he hit the ground. Michael skidded and tried to turn around to take him out, but his bike couldn't take the tightness of the turn the move required and Michael found himself flying through the air. He landed some ten feet away, bruised but free from serious injury.

Staggering to his feet, Michael saw Barzini getting farther and farther away before melting into the seething mass of humanity that crowded San Fierro's streets. Bitterness so intense it soured his mouth rose in his chest. The acrid tang of failure was rarely tasted by Michael, which made it sting all the worse now. Trying to shake it off, Michael headed over to the bloodied Sentinel. It had struck a telephone pole after Barzini abandoned his attempts to regain control. Careful not to get his clothes bloody, Michael retrieved a suitcase from the enlarged glove compartment that proved to be full of cash. It had to contain at least forty grand, Michael estimated.

A siren blared somewhere in the background, cutting through Michael's thoughts like a machette. He shook his head. He had to get the money back to Larry's. Michael walked back to his borrowed bike and sped off, unable to resist showing off a little for the crowd and pulling a wheelie as he did so. With his helmet on, it wasn't like they could recognize him.

Still, Michael vowed solemnly to himself that wouldn't be the last Barzini saw of him.

Fin.


End file.
